


Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

by AnotherGallavichLove, Whatsastory



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Chance Meeting, EMT!Ian, M/M, Phone Sex, Quarantine, Randonautica, Sexting, Texting, meet cute, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25684942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove/pseuds/AnotherGallavichLove, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: “It’s so fucking stupid,” Ian says finally - fishing his phone out of his pocket, and waving it around as if it should answer Mickey’s question as to why he’s there. “I heard about this app - Randonautica? Or something? Apparently you go places and you’re supposed to find things? It’s supposed to be paranormal or something.”“No fucking shit?” Mickey asks, unsure whether he’s reacting to the fact that they’re both there for the same reason, or because this app might actually be remotely interesting.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 18
Kudos: 190





	Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, look, we know that this isn’t how quarantine works, but suspend your disbelief and just let us live 😂
> 
> This was a fun, experimental little project where I, whatsastory, wrote only Ian’s POV, and Anothergallavichlove only wrote Mickey’s.

The steady beat of the back of Mickey’s head hitting the wall again and again is giving him just enough entertainment to survive the few seconds it’s taking for his phone to finish downloading the app. Dunk-dunk. Dunk-dunk. Dunk-dunk. 

Had you asked him six months ago, he would have told you that the day would never come when he would miss the scent of hot oil and sweaty cheese; he despised walking into that tiny burger joint and dawn the stained apron. Then, along came this fucking quarantine bullshit, and now a part of him can’t wait to get back in the kitchen. 

It’d be different if he was making enough money to own some kind of game console - even a shitty one - or even a television. As it is, though, he can barely pay the rent on the tiny, run-down apartment he had managed to find on the outskirts of the South Side. He’s paying his phone-bill, and every once in a while, he finds himself walking down to buy a case of beer and some cigarettes - if he’s lucky. 

Dunk-dunk. Dunk-dunk. Dunk-dunk. 

So this is how he is spending this quarantine - day in and day out - sitting on the floor-ridden mattress in the middle of his studio apartment - in his underwear, downloading shitty app after shitty app, trying to find something to entertain him. Sure, he could leave the apartment to do certain things - the other day, he had gone on a walk, but it felt a bit ridiculous without a dog to accompany him - he had considered going down to the shelter, but considering the fact that he could barely afford his own food, he had thought better of it. The first few weeks, he had jerked off nearly non-stop, in lack of anything else to do, but at this point, it was down to once a day - if that. 

The first two weeks of quarantine hadn’t been so bad - he guessed his neighbour’s Netflix password, and made it onto the account - his phone a perfectly decent screen - but then she had kicked him out of her account. Bitch. 

Sometimes he feels as if he is living in one of those fucked up television shows or movies where the character lives the same day over and over again. 

Finally, the icon lights up, installed next to an array of other stupid apps that he should probably delete; it had started with ones that made sense - car racing games, zombie games - but by now, he has several slides of everything from stupid quiz apps, to voice changing apps, and those obviously fake paranormal ghost finding apps. 

It’s been a long quarantine. 

This app has an icon that looks to be of a gold coin, a creepy owl on it, its head to the side like it’s possessed by a demon. Randonautica. Mickey doesn’t even know what the hell it’s supposed to do - he had stopped reading any descriptions or reviews - half of those were fake people anyway. 

With his head stilling against the cracked wall, Mickey clicks onto the icon, being greeted with a larger image of that same, creepy owl before it’s replaced by an image of some space, astrology shit. 

Welcome to Randonautica!  
New to Randonauting?

What the fuck is this bullshit? But Mickey is out of beer and his dick is limp, so he continues reading the welcoming screen. His interest is slightly peaked when he understands that using this app means leaving the house. It could easily be a scam - human trafficking, robberies, and other bullshit like that, but Mickey can protect himself just fine. Besides - it’s the middle of the day. Not to mention the fact that there is a list of tips that included only going during the day, using situational awareness, and other shit that seemed to be written in order to clear the owners of any blame if anything were to happen. 

Mickey hasn’t quite decided whether he is interested enough to actually get dressed and leave, but he lets the app track his location anyway - what’s the worst thing that can happen? The app mentions anomalies, and a bunch of other words that Mickey briefly recognizes but can’t be bothered to look up. 

Another few minutes of looking around the app has him quite certain that it’s some kind of spiritual, paranormal thing; from what he understands, he is supposed to think of something that he wants to find, go where the app leads him, and he would find it. 

Once again, six months ago, Mickey would have scoffed, and clicked out of the app. As it is, though, he is out of beer, cigarettes and lube - so he finds himself standing up to grab his grey sweatpants from the floor, pulling them on along with a washed out AC/DC t- shirt before he grabs his phone and goes towards the door. He steps into his fake Timberlands, and puts on the cheap, blue mask to cover the bottom half of his face - grabs his keys, and then he is off. 

There are a few different places around him that he could head towards, if the app was to be believed - and honestly? A part of him wants to lean into it, believe it, just for fun. Just to let himself have some kind of entertainment after so many months of complete and utter boredom. What kind of food-supplying business shut down in quarantine anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be an essential worker or some shit? He supposes that only applies to grocery stores, and larger chains of fast food - not tiny burger joints on street corners that don't even have enough floor space for the customers to have a table. 

As he walks, Mickey tries to think of what he wants to find - a brand new car? A briefcase with a million dollars? The first one seems highly unlikely, and while the second one wasn’t much better, it would surely bring a lot of trouble with it. So instead he decides on something more simple - something vague. Something to entertain him; the answer to his boredom. That is what he wants to find. 

Mickey walks for a while until he reaches the abandoned buildings; there were a few closer places that the app had shown him, but he already knows the buildings quite well, so he figures it was the best place to start. He steps over some debris - some bullet casings, an old shoe, damaged by the weather - until he makes his way up the staircase, closer to the red pin on his screen. 

____________

'The walls are suffocating me,' Ian thinks, laying on his back with his arm stuffed under his head in a rigid makeshift pillow. His fingers tap, tap, tap away at his belly, the worn fabric of his ratty old t-shirt muffling out the sound of skin against skin. 'The walls are suffocating me, and I'm going to die here.' 

He hasn't seen hide nor hair of anyone- well, actually, scratch that, because he's seen his coworkers and he's seen his patients, albeit from behind the protection of a surgical mask, paper gown and plastic face shield. But really, he hasn't seen hide nor hair from anyone outside of his medical bubble in what seems like forever now. He's staying in some shitty motel- not even a fucking hotel- thanks in part to a healthcare workers discount, and thanks in part to his unwillingness to expose his family to god-knows-what he's been tracking in on his clothes. 

The walls are stained an ugly, dusty yellow, and he thinks maybe he should quit smoking. It's not exactly safe these days, but really, it doesn't seem like much is. So he's in the motel- the one with the sign out front that blinks the 't' in the generic name- and he's fucking so over the loneliness. He's grown up in a houseful, and this alone shit is for the birds. 

So he taps his fingers across his belly a few more times, just a gentle, rhythmless tune, and fuck it. He's gonna download it. His coworkers have mentioned it a few times, and Ian's read up on it; the fucking... paranormal aspect of it or whatever. But he's never been one to believe in ghosts, and he's certainly not about to start now that he's twenty three. But maybe, if nothing else, it'll be a fun little way for him to, he doesn't know, just get out and get some fresh fucking air if nothing else. Going out for just a walk seems a little desperate, but a walk with, y'know, a reason, seems a little less so. 

He watches the little icon load against his background screen, the little circle coming into full color only after a few seconds. He opens it and scrunches up his eyes because- well, it's already a little weird. He plays around with the settings. Google searches what the fuck it actually means. And, fuck it. He decides to go to an attractor, because, well he's bored and an attractor seems... attractive? 

Now the intention part. That's the thing that hangs him up a little. What does he want? Well, he wants to get out of the stale smoke and dirty bed sheets, that's for sure. But. Maybe he wants something else, too? He wants more money, that's for damn sure. Enough to cover the new furnace that they're gonna need for winter. Maybe enough for a car so that he doesn't have to take the L every day of his life. 

But that seems... a little superficial, doesn't it? Is that all he wants? Yes, but also... no. He wants... he doesn't know, something big. He wants something true and whole and... worthwhile, right? A reason to get out of bed that's not his siblings who, while he loves them, drain the life out of him. He wants something... that's his. And only his. And no one else can touch because it's his, and he's the middle child and he never had anything that wasn't a hand me down or a soon to be hand me down and he. 

Just.

He just needs something to make him feel real again. 

What that could be, who fucking knows? God, maybe. But he'd been on that whole 'search for god quest,' and all he got from that was a little bit of jail time, so, no. It's probably not god. But maybe it's the app. 

He laughs to himself at his absurdity. He's acting like a kid, and it's stupid, he's probably stupid, but he's tying up his shoelaces and pocketing his wallet anyway. He puts on his face mask and lets the door close behind himself before locking it with a good old fashioned metal key. 

It's a little bit of a hike- around forty five minutes to get to his coordinates. But it's okay. It's fine, really. It's hot out, but he'll live. He's lived through worse. 

He walks past The Alibi, and gives it a sad little smile. It hasn't been open in a while, and he knows Kev and V are hurting. He wishes he could do more. He wishes he could go in and sit at the bar, drink half a beer and get shit faced with his friends and family. Hell, even seeing Frank at this point would be a welcome reprieve. 

He keeps going. He gets led past his house and he has to stop. He has to. He just stands there in the middle of the street, feeling the sun punch at his cheeks just above his mask, turning his skin into an inferno of sweat and burn. It's not been that long, and none of them really care if he comes in, but he doesn't. He won't. And besides, he's after something right now. Something true and whole and something that's his and only his. 

Maybe he needs to get out of the sun, because he's starting to think that he's actually going to find something at the end of this rainbow, and he's ridiculous. He knows that much, if nothing else. 

But it feels right. It feels like with every step he takes, he's getting closer to where he's supposed to be. Like deja vu, only something a little more meaningful. 

He turns down Trumbull and his heart picks up. He's a little nervous, which is really stupid, even for Ian. He'd looked up where he was going on Google Maps, because he's not a complete idiot, and it's just some old abandoned warehouses. He's likely to find nothing but crumbling infrastructure, but, what if he finds more? 

He passes the baseball field and the shell of what used to be the Kash N Grab, feet hitting the pavement with purpose. Step, step, step, over and over again until the buildings go from bad to worse and he sees less and less people. And finally, he finds the building that's his target. 

He walks around the outside of it; just around the corner and behind it, eyes darting from side to side. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but if he's supposed to know it when he sees it- he definitely hasn't found it. 

Once he's back at the front with nothing to show for his troubles, he takes a deep breath and shrugs. It was a stupid idea. Why would he assume that he'd get anything out of this little adventure? Nothing good ever comes from an app- except maybe Grindr, but that goodness never lasts longer than a couple of hours. 

But then. Then he thinks, maybe he needs to go inside. It's probably dangerous. Who knows if the ground is even stable in there. He's probably going to be flattened like a pancake by a rogue strip of decaying roof. But Ian's never been one for self preservation, and he's certainly not gonna start now. So, with weary eyes and a fluttering heart, he paces toward the door and opens it with a creak.

Inside is dusty, but that’s no surprise. It’s also no surprise that the first thing he sees is a spray painted dick, big and veiny, and hey, it’s realistic, at least. He rolls his eyes and looks around elsewhere. There’s not much, really. A big open space littered with beer bottles and scattered trash. 

He looks and looks, and looks a little more but… there’s nothing. Nothing to be his. Nothing for him to have that no one else has. Disappointment creeps up his neck and settles in a tingle against his scalp. Why the fuck would he have put so much time and effort into some shitty app? Maybe his meds need an adjustment- he makes a mental note to call his doctor just in case. 

So there’s nothing around and he came for no reason and now he’s got sunburn on his cheeks and his arms have come to life in a mess of freckles that won’t fade away for a couple of weeks at least. He’s probably breathing in asbestos and he’s got pit stains in his shirt and all he wants and needs is a cold shower to wash his little adventure away. But. If he goes up- up the half dilapidated stairs and jumps over the holes in the floor, he could check out the roof. Because why not? He’s come all this way, and he’s definitely not going to find anything that he was looking for, but at the very least, he might get to see a semi decent view from up top. The area is shit, and the buildings are shit, but, beauty in destruction and all that… 

He finds the stairs easy enough; concrete and foreboding, but he’s feeling a little reckless today and he can’t think of a reason why not- or at least, a reason beyond ‘this is dangerous and you’re a moron.’ Doesn’t matter, he’s on his way up and out before he can talk himself out of it. 

__________

Mickey isn’t sure how long he is walking around the abandoned buildings - wishing that he has a bottle of Jack, or a pack of smokes, just like old times. But when he isn’t able to find the cure of his boredom - which is fair enough, despite his want to lean into the paranormal aspect of it - he sinks down against the crumbling concrete wall, happy to let himself breathe air that isn’t coming out of his own apartment. He is just about to reach up and pull down the face mask since there aren’t any people around, but right then, he hears steps echoing through the debris, and he stands up. 

“Who the fuck’s there?” He asks, realizing that he is sounding as if he owns the place - as if he has any right to scare people away. His teenage self probably would have taken the right, but at twenty six, it was getting a bit old. 

“Oh, is this private property?” The man questions earnestly, before Mickey can even get a good look at him. He reaches the top of the staircase, and Mickey sizes him up - tries to figure out whether he should get ready for a fight - fair enough, considering what he and his brothers used these buildings for, growing up. The man doesn’t seem to be too much of a threat, though - a few years younger than Mickey, perhaps - and tall - a clean-shaven face exposed since his face mask is pushed down to his chin. Also fair enough, since they are standing a lot more than six feet apart. 

“Nah, man,” Mickey finally replies, feeling the need to pull his facemask down as well, the air becoming too thick behind it. “Nah - just ain’t used to people coming here is all.” 

________

Ian watches him; the way his hands twitch at his sides and his eyes skitter around their surroundings. He’s tense, and he looks like maybe he’s waiting for more people to show up- like he’s gearing up for something. And Ian’s no stranger to unpredictable people, right? He’s an EMT, and part of that is dealing with people who are having the worst day of their lives. He knows how to de-escalate. Knows how to talk to people. He’s a... people person. Or at least that’s what people tell him. 

“So, you come here often?” He asks, and can't help the cheeky little grin his face contorts into, and he knows he’s said the right thing when the guy chortles and shakes his head like he’s already disappointed in Ian. 

“That line usually work for you?” He asks as he unhinges his mask from one ear and lets it dangle from the other. 

“Can’t say I’ve honestly used it before. You’re my first. What’m I batting at?” 

“Big ole zero, man,” the guy smiles, and, arguably, it’s a really fucking good smile. It’s bright and toothy and maybe a little cocky- and his eyebrows form a perfect arch to frame it out and- it’s a good smile. 

“Ian,” he says and points to himself like a dumb ass, like he’s talking to a caveman and trying to teach him English. 

“Mickey,” ...Mickey, says, pointing to himself in an over exaggerated way that tells Ian he’s being made fun of, but he can’t bring himself to care all that much about it.

__________

Mickey is anything but a… a ‘people person’ or whatever people like to call it. So he isn’t sure why he finds himself engaging in conversation with this person, light as it may be. Granted, he had gone the past several months without having a single conversation with another person, so perhaps it isn’t that strange. 

“So what are you doing here, Mickey?” Ian asks, and Mickey notices the extra steps he takes in order to get to a more comfortable distance - keeping more than six feet of distance, of course. “Burying a body?” 

“Uh…” Mickey hesitates, for emphasis, before stomping his foot onto the hard, concrete flooring. “So you ain’t one of the smart ones, huh? Good to know,” Mickey shrugs, and he catches Ian rolling his eyes, but he also thinks that there is a decently prominent tug to the sides of his mouth, and Mickey wants desperately to ignore the way the afternoon sun reflects the several different tones in his red hair, and brings out the freckles speckled across his cheeks. God damn it, Mickey really needs to get laid. It has been so long since Mickey has had any human contact at all, he can’t even tell if Ian is as attractive as he appears right now. “You?” 

“I have to answer? You didn’t answer,” Ian points out, making it Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes. 

“Okay,” Mickey shrugs, starting to head towards the staircase. “I’m gonna just assume you’re a freak and you came here to jerk off, and Imma leave you to it,” he says, reaching for his mask to put it back onto his face. 

“That’s not fair, okay - please don’t leave, I’ll talk to anyone, I’m so lonely,” Ian says, reaching out his arm in a motion to pull Mickey back, although still too far away to actually reach him. Mickey turns around to face him, crossing his arms over his chest, silence hanging in between them for a second before Mickey bends over, snorting loudly as he clutches his stomach. “It’s not funny, I’m serious.” 

__________

“I’m not laughing at you, Red. I’m laughing at, I dunno, the fucking universe or something,” Mickey says through a chuckle as he runs his fingernail over his temple. Ian takes a step closer, mindful of social distancing, and gets a better look at him. The way there’s crinkles around his eyes- and his forehead, and if the last few minutes are anything to go by, Ian can tell he’s got an expressive face. It’s a good fucking face- just as good as his good smile. 

“The universe,” Ian nods along, because, yeah. The universe is pretty funny sometimes. 

“I dunno why I’m here. It’s... Jesus, it’s gonna make me sound like I belong in a nuthouse,” Mickey shakes his head, and Ian pointedly chooses not to be offended by his words. “But, uh, I was bored. Like, out of my mind, ready to put my head through the wall just for a reason to go to the ER kinda bored. Thought I should better occupy my time.” 

“And you thought coming to a creepy old abandoned factory was a better alternative,” Ian deadpans and watches the smile flare back up, only this time it’s a little shy and Mickey lets his eyes fall to the grey ground beneath them. 

“Ay, you’re here, too, are you not?” 

“Well...” Ian shrugs, “yeah, but I didn’t like... didn’t choose to be here.”

_________

Mickey keeps his arms crossed, raising his brows in question. 

“Aye, you got two legs, and I don’t see a gun pressed to your back,” he points out, and judging by Ian’s nod, he can’t very well disagree. Mickey thinks that perhaps he curses under his breath, which makes him feel a bit more at ease - maybe he is from around here, despite the neat-ish hairstyle, and the goody two-shoes face. 

“It’s so fucking stupid,” Ian says, finally - fishing his phone out of his pocket, and waving it around as if it should answer Mickey’s question as to why he’s here. “I heard about this app - Randonautica? Or something? Apparently you go places and you’re supposed to find things? It’s supposed to be paranormal or something.” 

“No fucking shit?” Mickey asks, unsure whether he’s reacting to the fact that they’re both there for the same reason, or because this app might actually be remotely interesting. 

“You ever heard of it?” Ian asks, and to be fair, thereby gives Mickey a pretty easy out. But this is the first conversation Mickey has had in weeks, and he probably shouldn’t start out with a lie. So as Ian looks at him, waiting for a reply, Mickey sighs, and uncrosses his arms, lifting them out to the side for a second before dropping them. “No shit, that’s why you’re here, too?” 

________

“That’s why I’m here, too,” Mickey confirms, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s a little irritated by the conversation. But Ian can understand his point of view- he gets it. This is weird. Unfathomably weird. 

“Shit. Alright. You think it maybe- like,” Ian grasps around at the air as if he can bodily pull the words from the atmosphere, “saw two users close by each other and just pulled us together to fuck with us or something?” 

“Well, it’s either that or it’s actually magic, numb nuts.” Mickey looks at Ian as if he were the dumbest motherfucker he’s ever met, but it only makes Ian feel a little giddy- that he’s looking at him at all. 

“Okay, tough guy. Let’s say it is magic. What’d you wish for on our little fairy godmother app?” Ian questions, crossing his arms over his chest and arching his eyebrow- hoping that he looks at least a little... intimidating? Interesting? Demanding? Who knows. He just hopes he’s looking.

_________

Ian looks as if he’s trying his absolute hardest to appear intimidating, or… demanding, or whatever the fuck - and it takes everything in Mickey to keep himself from pointing it out. 

“The fuck you think I wished for?” Mickey bites, crossing his arms over his chest; as if he’s unconsciously matching Ian’s stance - as if they’re a mirror of each other, not yet realizing this fact. “Wished for something to cure this fucking bordom, man, I think I’m going fucking insane.” Mickey sees something flash across Ian’s eyes - something sad - but just like that, it’s gone again, and Ian is back to smiling, tilting his head to the side. 

“And?” 

“And?” Mickey repeats, clearly mocking him. “It ain’t a fairy godmother, Red. Just a bunch of old, decrepit buildings.” At this, Ian nods and looks around, sticking his bottom lip out in a way that has Mickey instantly forcing thoughts of old, wrinkly tits into his brain to keep from thinking anything that he absolutely should not be thinking. Especially not in the middle of nowhere, during a fucking pandemic that enforces a six feet of distance rule. 

“Okay,” Ian says, uncrossing his arms and tucking his hands into the back pockets of his pants. “So you don’t wanna walk around some more? See if we can actually find something?” 

“Aye, not ‘fore you tell me what you wished for, Cinderella.” 

__________

“Seems a little personal, doesn’t it?” Ian says, hoping his words sound teasing. He’s not, though- teasing. It is a little fucking personal. He was hoping he could find something real. Something that was his and his alone. And he can’t very well tell this guy-Mickey- ‘hey I wished for something big to make me whole.’ 

Who knows if he’s even g- or well, he guesses, he never even thought of something like...love... maybe the something big is a friendship. Or just someone to talk to. Hell, maybe his big thing is finding a new plug. Mickey looks like he might dabble in dealing (if there even is a certain look to supplying loud). 

“What, you don’t think we know each other well enough, yet? You know my name. And look, we even got matching masks. Match made in hell, man.” 

And as he says it, Ian realizes that, yeah, that’s probably a good description. He might actually be in actual hell right now because Mickey is so close but so far away. So fucking beautiful, but he can’t say it. He’s fucking funny and his lips are pouty and his hair is perfect and so is his ass and. Ian. Ian can’t do anything about it. So, yeah, he thinks he might be in hell.

________

Mickey refuses to back down, keeping his arms crossed as he waits for Ian to give him an answer - it’s only fair since he gave him his. Finally, something flashes across Ian’s face - as if he says ‘fuck it’ and then he’s shrugging.

“You’re gonna think I’m pathetic - I uh… wished for something real.” Mickey raises his eyebrows at that, lifting his head as he thinks the words over. Ian could mean anything by that - technically a pile of trash is real as long as you can feel it, kick it, or smell its stench, but he has a feeling Ian isn’t talking about a pile of trash. He has the opportunity to lighten the mood with a joke just along those lines, but he chooses not to. Instead he nods. 

“Something real, huh? So you’re… lonely?” Mickey asks, stressing the last word in a way that suggests he’s making fun of Ian - and he is, a little bit. But at the end of the day, he really can’t mock him all too much. Mickey, too, is lonely. “Know the feeling, man.” God, quarantine has really ripped Mickey’s filter away from him. Never before would he have let himself admit something like that to a stranger. Even if a part of the reason for the confession is an attempt at wiping the blue look off of Ian’s face. 

________

“Yeah?” Ian feels the word slip from his mouth and he cringes inwardly, especially when he can see how uncomfortable Mickey is with the way their conversation has done and about-face. 

“Yeah, well. I’m laid off and don’t got anyone waiting for me at home, so...” Mickey sniffs and thumbs at his nose, looking shy and a little embarrassed. 

“I feel you,” Ian nods sincerely. “I’m uh, an EMT, so I’m still working but... I’m staying in a hotel so I don’t get my family sick. Been nothing but me and basic cable for a couple of months.” 

Mickey shifts at that, rightens up his stance and squares his shoulders, nods in a way that isn’t an agreement but more of an acceptance. An acceptance of what, Ian has no clue. 

“Must be hard for your girl,” Mickey shrugs. “Your kids.” 

“My kids?” Ian asks, before it dawns on him. “Oh! No. No. No kids. No girl. I live with... if you didn’t think I was pathetic before, you will now. I live with my siblings,” he chuckles nervously and paws at the back of his neck. “No guy, either,” he says after that, mostly an afterthought, and freezes at his admission, hoping to all hell that he’s not about to get bashed.

________

It’s comical, really - the fact that Mickey is meeting this guy now - in the middle of a pandemic that has them six feet apart at all times. Perhaps it’s in Mickey’s best interest to leave now - to walk away, and retreat to a life of boredom and inner turmoil. Yet, he is completely unable to stop the next words from tumbling out of his mouth. 

“You uh… walk around looking like that,” Mickey takes a beat to let his hand gesture up and down. “You’re a single, gay, EMT and I gotta run into you when we gotta stay six feet apart?” Mickey makes sure to keep his tone casual - as if he’s stating something regarding the weather, or concerning the current political events. Yet he can’t stop the tip of his tongue from poking out the corner of his mouth as he notices the flushed color wash upon the freckled surface of Ian’s cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian says after taking a moment to seemingly collect himself. “What’s the problem with staying six feet apart? We can get to know each other, we can go for a walk, we can talk.”

“Walk and talk, huh?” 

“I’m sorry, did you have something else in mind?” Ian asks, feigning innocence. 

_______

Ian watches as Mickey pulls a pack of smokes from his back pocket and lights one up, holding it out to Ian with a cocked eyes brow, and shrugging when Ian shakes his head (he’s got his own, and pulls them out and notes that he and Mickey are both sporting Reds). 

“Was thinking something that involves less clothes and my cock down your throat,” Mickey finally says as he breathes out the first wave of wispy grey smoke, and Ian nearly chokes on his. 

“Jesus,” he coughs. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” 

“Nah, but I am real good at beatin’.” 

Ian laughs, snorts it out ungracefully and probably a little disgustingly, but fuck. 

“That didn’t come out the way you hoped it would, I promise you.”

“Or maybe it did. Told you it’s been a long quarantine.” 

So Ian might be in love. He’s only just met Mickey, what, fifteen minutes ago, but he thinks he might be. Or could be. He will be if Mickey keeps this up. Looking and acting like that. Fuck, maybe his meds really do need an adjustment. 

“You gonna take a walk with me or you gonna keep running your mouth?” Ian asks, and god, he fucking hopes Mickey chooses the former.

__________

Mickey takes another drag of his cigarette and lets one of his brows raise as he motions towards the staircase. 

“After you, man,” he says. 

“Fine, but you’re robbing me of a really good view,” Ian complains, as the two walk down the steps.

“Don’t worry, the view’s only decent,” Mickey jokes when they make it down, and lifts his foot to give Ian’s ass a kick - really more of a push; as if they have been friends for years. As if they didn’t just meet. It didn’t feel like that at all. 

“Aye, six feet,” Ian says, turning around and walking backwards as Mickey rolls his eyes, “You’re three feet tall, I know for a fact your leg isn’t six feet.”

“Dick. Three feet,” Mickey mutters. “Know what - fuck you, I’m normal, you’re the fucking giant.” 

“You got a problem with giant dicks?” Ian asks, once again coating his tone with that fake, teasing innocence. “‘Cause that might be a problem, Mick.” 

Mick. Mickey can’t help but replay the way the nickname had fallen so easily from his lips. It is - truly - ridiculous how easily, how quickly this is happening. How their conversation flows, how they spend an hour walking around - just like that. How Ian tells Mickey about his life - the surface level things, Mickey supposes, but still - and how Mickey finds himself sharing certain things, himself. 

It feels as if they’re… friends. Sure, they’re flirting, and teasing, but those are add-ons. Cherries on top. 

_______

The sun starts getting sleepy after a while- its head falling down low behind the cover of the houses around them, casting long shadows along the sidewalk. Mickey looks great in the lighting, but, Ian thinks, he’d probably look great in any light. 

“I don’t want this day to end,” he feels comfortable enough to say once they’ve been walking and walking- and they’re both sweaty from the heavy August heat and humidity, and the conversation feels like it might be nearing a natural end. 

“Yeah, well. Me neither.” 

Ian feels his belly swoop with Mickey’s admission, even if he’d made the same one only moments before. He’s really, really into him, and Mickey could probably say anything and get Ian’s head swimming around in the clouds. 

“So...” Ian says, but doesn’t know how to finish it. 

“So...” Mickey prods, stopping in his tracks to watch Ian with eagle eyes, and his mask dips in towards his nose, and Ian knows he’s breathing just as hard as he is. 

If this were any other timeline, this would be where he’d kiss him. He’d cup his cheek and hold him just right. He’d push all of his body weight into Mickey and feel Mickey push right back. This is where he’d lose himself- and probably never get himself back. 

But this isn’t any other timeline. This is now, and this is terrible.

__________

Ian’s presence is making Mickey think a lot of different things that he normally wouldn’t. For some reason, he isn’t just thinking about Ian’s dick in his ass, or his fingers digging into his flesh, or him tugging at his hair; he is also thinking about what Ian would look like, waking up in the morning. Mickey’s wondering what he sounds like when he’s been asleep for a few hours, and he wants to know what he’s like when he’s angry, when he’s sad - all of it. It’s scaring Mickey, sure - but he also can’t help but let the next words leave his mouth. 

“Know, if you weren’t an EMT, we could say ‘fuck it’ and go back to my place.” Technically, it’s the truth - they could stay together for the remainder of the quarantine, and if they didn’t end up getting along, Mickey’s sure they could find at least one activity that they both enjoyed. 

“You’re not a great influence,” Ian points out. 

“Ah, you thought I was a good boy,” Mickey nods, closing one eye to protect himself against the sun. 

“Not in a million years,” Ian shakes his head. “I kind of have to be, though.” Mickey nods once; he hadn’t been expecting anything else, but he had to try. They continue to walk for a while, talking about anything and about nothing, until they reach a motel, only a few minutes from Mickey’s house. “This is me,” Ian says. “And I gotta work tomorrow, so…” Mickey nods. 

“You gonna get me your number, Red?” 

________

Ian would give him anything. That’s the first thought that comes to mind. Terrifying and all consuming- he’s never felt like that with anyone. Not Caleb or Trevor or anyone else he’s ever even met. As crazy as it sounds, and it is a fucking doozy of insane, he thinks that Mickey might just be it for him. 

“I dunno,” Ian plays, “you gonna use it to send me dick pics?” 

“Probably,” Mickey dead pans, and Ian lets out that same ugly snort of a laugh. It’s embarrassing, but Mickey lights up each time it comes out, and well, can't be all that bad, can it? 

“Well as long as you promise,” he grins, and hopes it reaches his eyes above his mask. “I’d say give me your phone, but uh... y’know. So...” 

Mickey nods his understanding, and types out the number as Ian recites it and sends him a text with a middle finger emoji so that Ian has his number too. 

“Gonna expect you to return the dick pic favor. Pornhub gets old, y’know?”

__________

Ian laughs at that, and Mickey is unable to find it within himself to fight it - so he joins in. 

“Don’t worry, Mick,” Ian says. There it is again. Mick. Like they’re old buddies, like they’re… them? If that’s not the most insane thing Mickey has ever thought, he isn’t sure what that would be - but he can’t shake that thought. That there is supposed to be a them. “I’ll absolutely return the favor,” Ian nods, and Mickey hums, looks up and down Ian’s body, not bothering to be subtle about it. “Go inside, man,” Mickey says when Ian doesn’t move. “Said you had to go, ain’t no one stopping you.” 

Ian laughs again, and he shakes his head. 

“Goddamn it, I really wanna get closer to you than six fucking feet,” Ian mutters from behind his mask. Mickey nods. 

“Play your cards right, Red - might be allowed into my bubble.” 

“I don’t think that sounds the way you meant it to.” 

“Oh, that’s absolutely the way I meant it,” Mickey confirms. Ian laughs again, and then he heads inside the motel, leaving Mickey to make his way back to his own apartment, struggling to shake the dumbass smile off his face. 

________

Ian doesn’t wait long after going inside before pulling his phone out. He’s fresh out the shower with his hair pushed back by his trusty little comb, but it’s without pomade and he knows soon enough it’s going to be a bushy mess on top of his head- but he’s got more important things on his mind. Like blue eyes and a deadly glare that seems to melt him from the inside out. 

Ian (9:12pm): Hey, Mick. You get home okay? 🙂

Simple enough, he thinks. Maybe the emoji was a little much, but hey, it’s not like he sent the eggplant followed by a tongue and a splash or anything. So he’s playing it cool. 

Mick (9:14pm): Ya 🍆 

Mickey is everything. Mickey is in his head, already carefully scratched out a little corner and made himself a nice little nest, and he’s never going to leave. Ian’s sure of it. If he were a betting man, he’d put it all on Mickey. 

Ian (9:15pm): Coming on a little strong, aren’t we? 

Mick (9:16pm): Kiss my ass 😂

__________

Mickey sends the message, clicking out of the app and clicking onto Safari; before a page has time to load, though, a reply comes in. 

Ian (9:16pm): Just say the word.

Mickey (9:17pm): The word.

Ian (9:18pm): After quarantine. 

Mickey (9:20pm): You just had to become a fucking EMT hero, huh? Couldn’t get a job that would get you laid off so you could come over here and get laid? 

Ian (9:21pm): I’m kicking myself, trust me. 

Ian (9:22pm): Although to be fair, you haven’t sent me that dick pick yet. 

Mickey smiles down at his phone screen like a fucking teenager, as he without hesitation takes one of his hands to pull his sweatpants down, far enough to free the semi he was sporting. With the memory of Ian’s face - pathetic, by the way, who is Mickey becoming? - he only needs a few strokes until he’s hard enough. He lays down on his bed, letting his boner rest on his stomach, his pale skin and slight wash of black hair the background to his blushing dick. He snaps the picture and sends it off. After a second, he adds a message. 

Mickey (9:26pm): But I fucking hope you ain’t thinking this is the one that’s gonna be going in. 

__________

Ian breaks out in a fine sweat. It’s on his forehead and in his hair. Saliva pools in his mouth and his hands get a little shaky because fucking. Fuck. That picture. With that message? He’s gonna pass out. And someone’s gonna find his dead body with an erection and oh god. 

Ian (9:28pm): What, I don’t get an artsy shot? I just get dick, and that’s it?  
Ian (9:28pm): And trust me when I say, I fucking know you’re not a top 

Ian thinks he’s doing a good job at acting like he’s not as affected as he is. Mickey probably can’t tell that he’s about to come in his pants like a teenager over a fucking dick pic. 

Mick (9:29pm): Bitch please. I could have you begging for my cock if I wanted to. 

And well, Ian switches it up sometimes. He’s got a definite preference, though, and he can’t imagine ever begging for dick. But Mickey’s dick... well, that’s in a league of its own, and if he were going to beg for one. It’d probably be that one. 

Ian (9:30pm): Mmm.... dunno about that. But I’m guessing if I say the word, you’d get on your knees wouldn’t you, baby?

Baby? Who the fuck is he turning into. Ian does not say baby. He does not. And he will not. Not ever again. Jesus. 

Mick (9:30pm): Baby? 

Fuck.

__________

Mickey can’t help the way that his mood instantly changes; his hand is still wrapped around his dick, but he’s stilled it, as he stares at his screen and waits for a reply. Perhaps he shouldn’t have pointed it out - he supposed some people are into that shit, but Mickey isn’t. At all. It feels too… he can’t find an appropriate word, but it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t like it. 

Ian (9:33pm): Sorry.  
Ian (9:33pm): Don’t know why I said that.  
Ian (9:34pm): Rewind?

Mickey swallows. He knows that a year ago, he would have dropped the guy, just like that. Without hesitation. But there are two things that are very different now; the first one is quarantine. The second one is that, well… it’s Ian. And he knows that he just met Ian, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not at all. 

Mickey (9:36pm): You might have to make it up to me.  
Mickey (9:36pm): 🍆 💦 

Mickey’s phone is quiet for a decent amount of time after that, and eventually he’s starting to question whether he said something wrong. But that’s when the screen finally lights back up with a message. 

And… fuck. Holy shit. 

That’s not just a dick, that’s the fucking dick Mickey dreams about. Long, and thick, with a slight vein running along the side of it - pale skin, decorated with slight, faint freckles, and a head with a deep pink flush that Mickey knows is all because of him. Or hopes, at least. 

Ian (9:45pm): Do you approve of my apology? 

_______

Ian bites at his lip as he watches the iMessage dots appear and disappear, and repeat. He has to chuckle at it, albeit a breathy little thing, because apparently Mickey’s feeling some type of way. And he hopes it’s the type of way that he is. 

Mick (9:48pm): Seen worse

Ian rolls his eyes, but it’s with a fondness, and he feels them go soft and... sweet, or something, shortly after. And then he feels his lower region flare back to life, demanding that it be paid attention. 

Ian (9:49pm): Cut the shit, Mick. You know I want you. And I know you want me. So we gonna keep fucking around or are you gonna sext me like a man? 

He hits send and he can’t even feel bad about it. He’s seen Mickey’s dick. Mickey’s seen his. Good. Great. Perfect. (Of course he won’t be mad if Mickey says no, he just really fucking hopes he won’t).

________

Mickey stares down at the screen, feeling one of his eyebrows raise in pleased surprise. He takes his hand off of his dick in order to rub the back of his neck, taking a minute to consider his response. A part of him likes the game; another part of him is thirsting for Ian’s cock in any way he can possibly get it, even if it’s virtual. He starts typing a message, and then he erases it; starts typing another one, and erases that, too. Then he finally just presses the call button, and wraps his hand back around his dick, stroking himself lazily as he waits for Ian to pick up. 

“Mickey,” is the word that greets him, less than two dial tones in. It’s not a question, it’s not a greeting; not really. It’s a moan; as much as Mickey hates that word - it’s a moan. A rough, hoarse and dirty moan. Evidence that he is having just as much of an effect on Ian as Ian is having on him. 

“It’s a fucking perfect cock,” Mickey bites, though unable to keep the pleasure out of his own tone as he strokes himself. “It’s fucking huge and perfect, and I’d commit a fucking triple homicide if it meant having it buried in my ass right now, you happy?” Mickey decides to give the game up, just as Ian had suggested; he knows that he’s contributing to his ego, but he’s too riled up to care. Ian hums at the confession, and Mickey wishes so desperately that he was hearing the sound without it having to go through the phone. 

_______

“Oh, fuck,” Ian grits out, eyes clamped shut and hand squeezing at his length. “Jesus, Mickey. Talk me out of coming to your house right now. Please.” 

“How ‘bout you tell me what you’d do when you got here instead?” Mickey’s shaky reply comes, little puffs of breath punching out the words. It’s clear he’s doing exactly what Ian’s doing. His hands are on himself, his eyes are probably clamped closed too. His mouth might be open. His body might be wiggling. It’s the best image that Ian can conjure, and he’s starting to feel a little lightheaded at the thought. 

“You said,'' Ian starts, but has to take a calming breath. “You said you want your cock down my throat. Think I’d start there. I’m really good at it. I’d make your toes curl. But not... shit, not at first. First I’d tease. ‘Cause you think you’d get me to beg for yours, but uh, I’d rather you beg for mine.” 

“Yeah? Yeah, yeah, tell me how you’d tease.” 

“Make you- make you lay down, or fuck, you could stand up. I don’t care. But I wouldn’t go down on you. Not at first. First my tongue would be everywhere. Fucking everywhere. Trailing up and down, but soft, y’know? So fucking soft and light that your eyes would roll back in your head and your hips would beg you to move ‘em, but you’d be good for me, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t move until I said you could?”

__________

“Fuck,” Mickey lets out, and he hates the fact that the sound is nothing but a pure, desperate whine.

“Would you?” Ian pushes, pausing to take an audible breath. “Would you be good?”

“Yes,” Mickey promises without a second thought, his thumb swiping across his slit, spreading his precome along his shaft as a substitute lube. He really detests the fact that he is out of lube right now. It’s the worst possible timing. “Yeah, I’d be fucking good for you,” Mickey adds. 

Usually, this is not something he’s good at, nor finds too interesting; usually he says ‘fuck me or fuck off’ but once again - quarantine… and Ian. 

“Yeah, you would,” Ian agrees. “You’d be so good. Then I would make you get onto your knees so I could get to that gorgeous fucking ass.” Mickey can hear his breathing starting to pick up, along with the faint sound of his slick hand moving along himself. Fuck. Mickey is on speaker. Ian should be on speaker, too. He does just that, and then puts the phone next to him on the mattress as he flips over onto his knees. “You on your knees?” Ian asks, and Mickey hums in confirmation. “Fuck, send me a picture.”

Mickey is too far gone to disobey - doesn’t want to disobey - so he picks up the phone, the phone call still going as he drops his upper body onto the sheets and raises the device, snapping an image showing his body from his shoulder blades to his ass. He sends it off and drops the phone. 

_______

It’s, well, Ian can’t see a whole lot. Just his pale, creamy back and the swell of his cheeks- the little dip down the middle. But it’s good. Mickey’s back is muscular and his ass, what he can see of it, has a nice little curve to it. He wants it. He intends to have it. 

“Fuck. I’m gonna put my mouth on that. Fuck you with my tongue. Work it in side by side with my fingers. Finger and tongue fuck you at the same time, get you open and ready for me. How many fingers you think you can take? How many you want?” 

Mickey lets out a strangled groan and Ian bites down on the same tongue he was just promising Mickey- just for a little bit of pain to keep himself from spilling over already. He’s not going first. He refuses. Call it stubborn red-headed pride, but like hell he’s going to let himself come before Mickey. 

“Three. Want three.” 

“You’ll get three then. You’ll get whatever you wanna get. Fuck, I’ll give you anything.”

__________

“Cock,” Mickey chokes out, as he fucks himself with two of his fingers. The saliva is a poor substitute for lube, but it works; and it brings with it a heady sting that only makes it better. “Fuck, I want that cock, come the fuck over,” Mickey mutters, mouth hovering over the phone as he twists his wrist around, trying to find the spot inside of himself that he knew would have him losing even more control. 

“You can’t be saying shit like that right now, Mickey, I barely have any self control left,” Ian grunts through the line. “Fuck, I want you.” 

Mickey hums in agreement, eyes slipping closed as he brings one hand to his cock, jerking himself off in time to the thrusts of his wrist. 

“How do you like it?” Ian asks. “When I fuck you, you want it hard? You like it slow?” 

“Fast and hard,” Mickey answers without hesitation. “Fuck,” he hiccups at a particular move of his hand. “If you - if you ain’t bruising’ me, if the neighbours ain’t complaining, s’not good enough.” 

“Fuck, that’s what I was hoping you’d say,” Ian croaks, and Mickey swallows, unable to say anything more as he picks up the pace of both of his hands. “That’s what I’m gonna do as soon as this shit is over - gonna show up at your place and fuck you until it looks like we’ve beaten the shit out of each other. Until you’re fucking crying cause it feels so good.” 

“Oh god,” Mickey whines at the sound of his voice, feeling the heat build in his stomach. “So fucking close.” 

_________

“Yeah? Me too. I’ve been on edge since I first fucking saw you. You even understand how fucking hot you are, Mick? S’like looking into the... fuck... sun.” 

Mickey lets out a high pitched whine, and Ian starts to rethink his whole ‘not coming first,’ stance. Because god damn. He’s never heard something so enticing in his life. He’s never had a voice send sparks up his spine or down to his toes. But Mickey’s does, and of all of the surprises that Mickey brings to the table shouldn’t be, well, a surprise anymore. 

“Fucking coming,” Mickey grunts after that and Ian praises Jesus, because he was . . this close to losing it himself. His hand goes a little faster, the sting of his wrist yelling at him amps up and he’s just about to... 

Mickey lets out another guttural sound, and it’s unmistakable. It’s the sound of crossing the finish line and collapsing back down- and holy hell, apparently Mickey was on all fours for the whole time and his ass was up in the air (were his fingers buried deep inside?) and he was in that position because Ian told him to and. He’s done for. He spills over his hand and his back spasms up off the shitty, lumpy mattress and his eyes roll back and. It’s the best one he might have ever had. 

“We’re definitely doing that again.” Ian doesn’t ask. He’s telling Mickey. They’re going to.

_______

“And again,” Mickey replies, still on his stomach, eyes closed; feeling half dead, but so, so content. 

“And again,” he hears Ian repeat, the gravely, hoarse texture to his voice slipping away after his orgasm, replaced by a lighter, teasing tone. 

“Dork,” Mickey mumbles. 

But they do. They do it later that night, and they do it the next day, as soon as Ian comes back from his shift. (That one was all Ian’s fault, to be fair - considering he had sent Mickey a picture of himself. Not a dick pic - just a selfie, but the image showed him smiling into the camera, and Mickey could see the top of his uniform. He was only a man, to be fair.) 

But they don’t just help each other get off and hang up. They continue to talk. Ian tells Mickey about his job, and Mickey listens. Mickey grumbles about the bitter lady next door, and Ian laughs. Ian tells Mickey that he misses him, and Mickey bites back ‘Don’t even know me, Red’ but there isn’t any malice in it, and they both know it. Because Ian laughs again, and after a beat, Mickey lets himself mumble ‘You too.’ 

“I don’t have to go to work tomorrow,” Ian says one night, a few days after they first met. “Wanna go for a walk? After breakfast?”

_______

“I dunno. Think you can see me in person and keep your six feet distance?”

Ian smiles because he can tell Mickey’s smiling, too. He can hear it in his voice and the playful way his lips and tongue caress the words as they come out. 

“I can if you can,” Ian teases back, but to be honest, he’s a little worried about it (to be fair though, he’s worried about everything these days).

“S’my birthday in a couple days. You gonna make me stay six feet away for that? I don’t get birthday head?” 

“Wait, you serious? It’s actually your birthday?” Ian feels a little tug at his guts- a frown from the inside maybe. His birthday was passed alone, too. And fuck, that was months ago. The whole god damn year has been miserable- but Ian found a bright spot in Mickey. And he can’t even fucking do anything about it. 

“Sure, man. On the tenth.”

_________

“This isn’t fucking happening,” Mickey hears Ian groan, and he can picture him pressing the heel of his hand against his eye. 

“I’m joking, man,” Mickey says. “Not about the birthday, about the head. Know you gotta be extra careful.” The truth is that if Ian were to open his mouth and tell Mickey that he was on his way over right now, Mickey would probably find it within himself to stop him. Because he cares about Ian. As scary as it is, and as foreign as it feels, he cares more about Ian’s life and livelihood than he cares about getting dicked down. 

“I’m gonna make sure to give you the fucking best belated birthday head of your life,” Ian groans, and Mickey laughs. 

“Dunno if I’ve ever had belated birthday head, but I don’t doubt it,” he finds himself saying. 

After that, it’s silent for a little while. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s late, they’re both spent, but they don’t want to hang up yet. At least Mickey doesn’t, and he hopes Ian doesn’t either. He hears the sound of Ian moving around in the motel bed, the crinkling of the covers followed by a content sigh. 

“So you uh…” Mickey is - surprisingly enough the one to break the silence, making himself get the words out before he can overthink it, or stop himself. “Think you might wanna grab something to eat sometime? After this shit’s over?” 

It’s as close to asking someone out as Mickey will ever let himself get. 

_________

“You serious?” Ian chuckles, he thinks he sounds cool enough about it, but his belly is swooping around like he’s on a roller coaster. It’s just that... it’s such a funny question. They already have solid, concrete plans for Ian to make a home inside of Mickey’s body, and Mickey’s sounding a little nervous about asking him to get a burger?

“Fuck you’s, what I am,” Mickey sniffs indignantly, and Ian feels himself melt just a little bit. 

“Mickey. Mick. I would honestly love to grab a bite with you, you fucking nerd,” he says, and his voice comes out all soft and sweet, and it makes him cringe a little bit, but, whatever. 

“Alright, then,” Mickey says back, playing for nonchalant (spoiler alert, it’s not working). 

“Good.” 

“Great.” 

“Perfect.” 

“Awesome.” 

Ian laughs again. “We gonna keep playing this game or are you gonna agree to meet me for a walk tomorrow, jackass?”

_______

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, I’ll go for your fucking walk.” 

“Good.” 

“Bitch,” Mickey sighs, following it up with a chuckle. Ian hums. 

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” 

They hang up after that, and if anyone asks, Mickey would absolutely deny going to sleep with a smile on his face. When he wakes up on the other hand, the smile is nowhere to be found; because what is waking him up is the shrilling sound of his phone. He slaps around his bed until he finds the device and answers the call, pressing the speaker so he won’t have to hold it up to his ear. 

“What?” He grumbles, eyes still closed. 

“Hi, I’m outside.” 

“The fuck?” Mickey grunts, opening an eye to check the time on the screen. “It’s like nine am.” 

“Yeah,” Ian confirms. “After breakfast. You asleep?”

“‘Course I’m fucking asleep, bitch, the fuck you think?” But in the next moment, Mickey sighs. “I’ll be right out.” He doesn’t give Ian a chance to reply before he ends the call and gets up, brushes his teeth and slaps on deodorant - sweatpants and another worn out band tee are the first items of clothing he spots, so that’s what he puts on. Then he grabs his keys and walks out the door. 

__________

Mickey’s hair is a mess. That’s the first thing Ian notices. It’s wild and untamed- completely unlike the first time he’d seen him, when it was gelled into place. His eyes are a little puffy and pink lined- the remnants of his pillow are etched into his skin above his mask. 

“Fuck, you look good,” Ian tells him before he can second guess himself. 

“You fucking blind? Just got my ass up,” Mickey sighs, rolling his eyes heavenward like he thinks Ian is absolutely ridiculous. 

“Nah, vision’s working just fine. And you look fucking good. Don’t argue with me.” 

“Whatever man,” Mickey huffs as he scratches at his eyebrow. “Where we walking to?” 

“Honestly?” Ian shrugs, “I didn’t think past getting you out of the house. You got any ideas? Contribute to the date, Mick.” 

“Oh, this is a date, is it?” Mickey scoffs, and crosses his arms across his chest and cocks his hip- sassy little thing he is. 

“Yeah. It’s the second one, actually. One more and you gotta put out.”

_______

“Think we both know I woulda’ put out about three times the first day we met if it weren’t for the whole…” Mickey gestures weakly in between the two of them. “...six feet thing.” At that, Ian whistles, as they start to walk along the sidewalk. 

“Think you can take this three times in one night?” Ian asks, turning around to walk backwards, jokingly grabbing his bulge through the sweatpants he’s wearing. 

“Aye - I was goin’ easy on you, I could probably go for four,” Mickey states, as he fishes his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, thinking of offering one to Ian before remembering that he can’t. 

“Gonna hold you to that, Mick.” Ian says, and Mickey wills himself not to look at him as he lights up the smoke; he’s already out in the middle of the day in sweatpants, clearly minutes after waking up - add a boner, and he looks like a perv, for sure. 

“Better,” Mickey speaks, the smoke following the words out through his lips. There’s a comfortable lull in conversation after that; Mickey can feel Ian’s eyes on the side of his face, but he doesn’t tease him about it. 

_______

Ian feels himself falling, fucking speaking deeper every time he sees Mickey. He sees him frequently enough, he supposes, though it could be more. And it could definitely be closer. Six feet when you feel your skin burning, begging to touch, might as well be a mile. It might as well be a light year. 

Ian talks to him everyday. Usually all day- when he wakes up, when he gets a free minute at work, when he gets off and settles into his shitty motel room. He thinks about him twice as much as he talks to him, hoping, wishing, pleading with the universe to just let him see him- see him for real, without a mask. Without any distance. With no restrictions. 

It’s days, and then weeks of it. And Ian’s tired of it- but not tired of Mickey. He’s, it’s early, but he’s in love with Mickey Milkovich. He’s head over heels, heart eyes, blood pumping fast in love with Mickey Milkovich.

__________

As the weeks pass, Mickey doesn’t let himself think all too deeply about what exactly is going on in between him and Ian - but he does know one thing for sure, and it’s that he can’t fucking wait until he’s allowed to touch him. 

It happens in the first week of September. Mickey is lazily scrolling through his phone, in lack of anything else to do. Ian should be off of work soon, and Mickey knows that he’ll call as soon as he is. He doesn’t even doubt it anymore. 

Mickey abruptly stops scrolling when he passes an article. Citizens of Illinois are allowed to gather in groups of less than eight people. Mickey sits up quickly, and he knows that he should wait for Ian to call him - but it’s past his shift, so he doesn’t care. He calls his phone. Once. Twice. 

__________

Ian feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Feels it stop. Then feels it start up again. But he doesn’t pull it out. Doesn’t even look at it. It’s not important, and he doesn’t care who it is, because he’s only got one thing on his mind. 

His legs are a little achy, and it’s kind of hard to run with his mask on, but there’s people on the sidewalk and he can’t bring himself to take it off. So he pants against it, feels it irritate his skin, but he pushes that to the back of his mind, and soon enough, he’s standing outside of the door. 

He catches his breath as the side of his fist lands hard on the wood, over and over, going on even as he hears disgruntled yelling behind it. 

“What the fu-,” Mickey says as soon as the door swings open, but Ian doesn’t let him finish. He rips his mask off and takes a step forward at the same time, and grabs the back of Mickey’s head, fingers curling in his messy black locks. 

_________

The kiss is better than anything Mickey could have possibly imagined. Through all of the weeks of texting, and walking, and talking, he is hardly a stranger to the way his stomach tended to soar around Ian; but this is a million times stronger. 

The way Mickey’s entire body seems to relax and tense up, somehow at the same exact time. The way he feels himself melting into Ian’s touch, responding to it like he’s never done anything else. 

Finally, Ian breaks the kiss, and Mickey feels himself following him for a moment before he realizes what’s happening. He opens his eyes, and meets Ian’s. 

Ian’s looking at him in that way - the way that tells Mickey that he’s thinking of a lot more than just tonight. Mickey swallows, licking his lips. 

“That all you got?” 

Ian’s face breaks out into a smile, and he backs Mickey into the apartment, kicking the door closed. 

________

It’s nearing midnight and Ian props himself up on one arm to stare down at Mickey. He’s sleepy and soft, with glassy eyes looking back up at him, and everything is fucking perfect. 

“I wished, or manifested, whatever, on that dumb ass app,” Ian says, reaching down with his free hand to trace along Mickey’s jaw as he swallows thickly, “for something that was mine. Something to make me whole.” 

“Thought you wished for something real,” Mickey says back in a gravelly voice- and Ian can’t blame him. They’ve exhausted each other in every which way- and to be honest, he has no idea how he’s even still awake, other than the fact that he can’t bear to close his eyes and stop looking. 

“That, too. But now… now I think I was just wishing for you.” 

“Jesus, you’re such a chick,” Mickey chuckles, and Ian feels the corners of his lips tugging up. 

“Maybe. But you’re stuck with me now.” 

“Yeah. Guess so.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this little fic, you should head on over to Blood in, Bleed out- a full length, dark and gritty mob fic by the two of us! [Read it here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24559567/chapters/59309557)


End file.
